“Those rubber soles leave dark streaks on the wood, Cassidy.”
Diane did not look up from the gold-framed hall mirror as she spoke. She smoothed her green silk scarf with both hands, her fingers lingering on the knot, checking her reflection for any sign of age.
The rug beneath my feet was a hunting design, thick and heavy, valued at forty thousand dollars. Diane often told guests she had personally imported it from Isfahan, but I remembered signing the corporate approval memo for the purchase three years ago when the Morrison Holdings foundation remodeled the foyer. I kept that detail to myself.
“I will take them off by the bench,” I said.
My voice was slow and quiet, the deliberate cadence I used when I wanted to make people wait. I gently twisted the silver wedding band on my right pinky finger, a habit that always seemed to ground me when I entered this house.
“Please do,” Diane said, her voice carrying that sweet, thin lilt she used when she wanted to mask her cruelty. “We have the estate appraisers coming tomorrow morning, and the floors must look pristine for the valuation.”
She did not offer to help with my coat. She simply watched from the mirror as I unlaced my cheap flat shoes, her eyes tracking every movement of my five-month pregnant frame.
